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Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Apples & Oranges' Marisol has an interesting relationship with her mom...

My mother’s latest plastic surgery left her
face looking like a potato.

No, really. It was oversized,
comparatively speaking (the woman was a size two for crying out loud), and her skin
was pulled tight over surgically-enhanced cheekbones and chin. Though the effect was like an
allergen test gone bad, my mother, former eighties’ nighttime actress Annalise
DeLoria, wore the hornet attack aftermath proudly.

My mouth dropped
open when I saw her.

“Twenty grand well
spent,” she announced.

Thirty minutes into
lunch, and I was still stupefied by the sight. Her caramel skin looked so uncomfortable,
my own face ached just looking at it. And I kept waiting for her head to flop
forward, landing face first in her food because of the weight of its man-made
parts.

The more Annalise
talked—chastising me in Spanish for having the nerve to ask if it was her last
procedure since it was lucky number fifteen—the less her lips moved. She looked
like a ventriloquist, sitting there calling me a grosera, mocosa
egoístaover her untouched, undressed
spinach salad. Except that her hand wasn’t up anyone’s ass.

Oh, and she wasn’t
calling me a rude, selfish brat for comedic
effect. Oh, no. This was all for the sole purpose of knocking me down a peg or
two. After all, I had the audacity to show up for our once-per-year luncheon
looking younger, prettier, and more human
than she did. Never mind that I was thirty years younger. And her daughter.

Nobody
outshone Annalise DeLoria. Not ever.

“Well,
have you found yourself a man, Marisol?” she asked me through frozen lips.

“I’ve
been dating,” I replied cautiously, pushing my smashed red potatoes from one
edge of my plate to the other. “Nothing too serious, though.”“You do realize how many
calories were in your meal, don’t you?” She flared her nostrils at what was
left of my salmon filet.

My mother had been
dieting for as long as I could remember. One of my earliest memories was of her
cussing out my nanny for pouring two percent milk on my cereal. It was no
wonder I’d grown up and started my own catering business. Rich, delicious, home-cooked
foods at my fingertips every day. Sure, I spent most of my time at the gym
working off the foie gras and truffle sauce, but it was worth it. (My super ripped
trainer helped, too.) Besides, it was either open a business where I could eat
anything I wanted after being forced to diet from the age of seven, or become a
hard-core bulimic.

I didn’t like
throwing up. It screwed up my lipstick and made my breath stink.

Catering it was.

I
pushed my plate back, no longer hungry. Being around Annalise did that to me.
“So tell me about Don.” Maybe asking about my most recent stepfather—the seventh,
in case you were wondering—would change the topic. He was a lawyer in L.A. whom
she’d met while he handled my fourth stepfather’s tax evasion case. They’d been
married all of a year, and I was certain she was cheating on him. I didn’t have
high hopes for the longevity of their relationship.

“Well,
he is seventy-three, Mother.” I discreetly checked my iPhone for messages, then
hid it under my napkin on the table. My business partner, Lexie, was drowning
in lobster stuffed mushroom caps, and I needed to get back to work. “I suppose
his attention span is only so long anymore.”

“Well,
he certainly noticed his case last month.” She forked a piece of spinach, held
it up to her mouth, rethought it, and put it back down. “That’s all he noticed, if you want the truth.”

I
shifted in my chair. My mom had never grasped the concept that most
people—normal people—actually work for a living. “Well, I’m sure it was a big
case if he—”

“Want
my advice, my dear?” She put down her fork and steepled her fingers. Her gaze
was heavy… or maybe that was just the weight of her giant face. I couldn’t be
sure.

“Annalise,
uh, Mom, I—”

She
shushed me with the wave of her hand. “Get yourself a man. An older one who’s filthy
rich and retired. Who’ll worship you, despite your shortcomings.” Annalise
smiled at a waiter passing the table—a gesture that was almost undecipherable
because of her puffed face—then pointed at my head. “One that will ignore your
crooked nose. Or your muffin top.”